Everything is broken.
The lawn mower.
My mother’s memory.
My ability to care.
To keep believing that things will get better.
And all that’s left at the end of this long list of losses is one saving grace:
The words that come from my mouth when I can’t keep them down any longer:
“I give up.”
And I don’t fall. I land.
In the place I fight so hard to avoid.
And it’s okay. I don’t break.
Not true. I do break. Open.
And the breaking open—even that one little crack—is enough.
“It’s how let the light gets in.”
(Thank you, Mr. Cohen.)
To surrender is terrifying. Still. As many times as I’ve survived it.
The free fall like one out of a plane.
That first moment so dreadful.
The Grace that follows as wide and as open.
With the tears and the not knowing comes the strange inexplicable way back.
To not giving up.